... Logan ...
Part o3
Logan stops at the first motel that doesn't have a gigantic neon cactus on its sign. It's called The Napoleon and that seems, somehow, appropriate.
The desk clerk; a short blonde woman with too much makeup and hairspray; barely acknowledges Logan's presence. He's registered with cash from his wallet and leaving with a key to room twelve in moments. He suspects there aren't eleven other guests.
Logan pulls the truck around to the parking stall right in front of the weathered door to his room. He slides out of the cab pulling the backpack with him. The room key scrapes lazily in the lock and cool air-conditioned air washes over him as he opens the door. He lets out an involuntary sigh and throws the pack in the corner of the room, toes off his boots and flops face down on the queen size bed. The sheets are cool, too-often-washed cotton. It's clean, no human scent in the room. Bone tired limbs cement him to the mattress for a time.
His thoughts won't stop tumbling over each other. Fourteen hours of his six foot frame crammed into his truck, driving with no destination and feeling as though the road might open up and swallow him at any moment. There were several moments during the day's endless hours that he had wished for that very thing.
He pushed himself up into a sitting position and eyed the backpack. "Everything he would need" his father had said. How did his father know what he would need? As soon as he thought it he felt traitorous. Of course his father knew him. Perhaps, one of the only things his father really knew was Logan. Standing up at the end of the bed he stared at the backpack as though he were waiting for it to leap up and transform into something. He walked slowly over and picked it up - swinging it up on to the bottom of the bed. The pockets of the canvas backpack were jammed full. Logan reached a shaking hand out to the front pocket and unzipped it. There was a piece of folded paper crammed in carelessly so he tugged it out. He unfolded it and took in a sharp breath when he saw his father's handwriting and rust coloured blood drops. Running a hand through his blonde locks he groaned and looked up at the ceiling. Yes, this was going to make everything feel much better. He sank back down on the bed and read the letter.
touch the letters
The sob started somewhere near the knot of muscles that had slowly tightened in Logan's stomach. It crawled up his body bringing nausea, shaking and chills...shocks through his entire body.
When he found his voice it was heart-rending, the empty sob of a man who's lost everything. Loan pressed his face into the motel bedspread, shoulders heaving as tears, snot and sweat covered his cheeks and lips. Each breath was an effort to pull in; each sob impossible to contain. Hours later, he curled up on his side, drew his knees up to his chest, tugged the bedspread over him and fell into an exhausted sleep. Even in sleep the ruddy skin of his face didn't relax.
story and words and photos Copyright Charlotte Kinzie 2009.
email for permission to use my stuffs.